Still Running
by ImogenW
Summary: In the aftermath scene of Karofsky's suicide attempt, Blaine opens up about his own ideation. WARNING: talks of suicide, self harm, depression


_AN: **I have not written anything in about um...a year. whoops. So here's this crappy thing, based on thisisnotmyfairytaleendingg (dot tumblr dot com)'s gif set (the only one i can find is defying-gravity-gleek (.) tumblr (.) com post /18312220804 /wishing-well-eyes-someone-write-this-and-i**_

_**Go check it out because it's amazing and makes so much more sense than what RIB actually did**_

_He's still running._

The few people he's opened up to about his past think he's over everything. That he's over the self-hatred, the feeling of worthlessness, the self harm; the suicidal thoughts, the uncertainty over his future. And he is over them, but not in the way their thinking.

He's _over it_. He can't take it anymore. He came so close last night-it should have scared him, told him to stop, that this was dangerous. But, in all honesty, it just cleared up his future. Or the lack of. Because this is it.

He's sick of it. Sick of looking in the mirror and hating the masked perfection in front of him. Of hiding the scars, the pain, of saying 'I'm fine' and having everyone believe him.

_Attention seeking._

He's hurting. He's dying and he can't tell anyone. No one would understand. No one would get it. Every moment of the day his mind is screaming at him, stabbing him with these thoughts that won't leave. He's paranoid, he's distracted, he can't concentrate, can't motivate, can't get himself to do anything productive. The falling school grades, the bags under his eyes-nobody notices. He still sings, but he's not singing for himself anymore. He's singing to save his reputation, to scrape through. Because if he's singing, nothing's wrong, right? His long sleeves are just a fashion statement, his unkempt hair is him being himself, his weight loss is because of exercise, right?

_Worthless_

He runs every morning, it's true. Around the school, over the athletics track, into Westerville, around the park. But it's never far enough. It's never far enough, and he always comes back. He never makes it to the train station, or to the bridge; he's never had the strength to run that far.

Every mile is run with regret-it takes him away from himself, but it's another mile closer to being home. People praise him for his self-discipline, and he smiles a thank you. Nobody ever thinks anything's wrong. He's just the perfect boy that everyone wants to be.

_Freak._

At ten pm, the cracks begin to show, like clockwork. He begins to shake, to grip his wrists, push down hard and wait for his roommate to fall asleep so he can find some relief. He tries to distract himself; he plays the guitar, but ends up snapping two strings, tries to finish his Literature essay on a book he never read, attempts maths work he never learnt how to do, until his roommate slams down his laptop screen and goes to bed.

_Emo_.

The blade is good. It helps. It knows. It's _there_. There's the relief, the pain, the dull sting afterwards, the harsh pain of the peroxide, and the knowledge that everything will end. Very. Soon. He won't run away. He won't try and fight it. If anything he'll run towards it, head first. The very first brave thing he's ever done.

_Coward._

It haunts him. He never fought back. He never stood up for himself, he never told them to _leave him the fuck alone. _He never told anyone. He never called them out for the cowards they were, never told them to stop being so fucking afraid of change. But that would be hypocritical, he thinks. The pain that's numbing on his arm, the thoughts that never leave-he knows them. He understands it; he knows every corner of it. He doesn't want it to change.

'_Golden'._

It would be so easy to go now. To fall into that hole that's been just in front of him for nearly four years. Just two more hand movements and it's all over. But he's not disloyal. He's not going to leave his group in the lurch like that. So he'll wait. One final performance, and then he'll end it. He'll blitz the performance, and go out on a high note. After all, some say being a teenager is a nightmare. And nightmares are just dreams for the weak.

_Failure._

He wakes the next morning, and almost smiles. He changes his red-stained sheets, and puts on his running gear. He takes his notebook and his pen, and goes to the park. The most peaceful place he knows. If it's his last run he wants it to be perfect. His iPod starts playing '_Cough Syrup' _as he begins writing.\

_Dear Trent_

_I guess you're the one that'll find me. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't want to do this here but I wasn't going home for ages and I couldn't wait for that, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm weak and that I can't care quite enough_

_**Life's too short to even care at all, oh**_

_**I'm losing my mind, losing my mind losing control**_

_Dear Mr Charnigh,_

_This is weird, me writing this to you. But I wanted to say thank you. Even in that hell hole of a school, you came through and helped me. You saved me. You put me up for the Dalton Scholarship, and although this still happened, it would have happened a lot sooner back there. You always said the sun would shine, and shine it did. It's just a pity that people create clouds with a lot more ease than creating sun._

_**A dark world aches for a splash of the sun, oh**_

_Dear Wes,_

_The first words you spoke to me were 'You'll be happy here. You'll get better. You'll belong here. . I'm sorry for leaving everyone like this. I hope you find your next soloist more deserving._

_**And so I run now to the things they said could restore me,**_

_**Restore life the way it should be**_

_Dear mum,_

_Remember when I had that cough? And you took me in your arms and said 'It'll pass, sweetie, give it time'? Remember when every childhood illness was a case of 'Lie in bed, it'll go away'?_

_Why didn't this one?_

_**One more spoon of cough syrup now**_

_Ungrateful._

He runs back to Dalton, letters in hand, stamped, addressed, and he's ready. He can feel it. He wonders if this is how people in hospital feel, those with real diseases, those who deserve to get better and live. If they feel that sense of certainty, that feeling of closure-that word that shrinks throw around every _fucking _meeting; they have no idea what it means, what it feels like. It's the knowledge that _everything is going to plan. _

_Dapper as usual._

His blazer hooks itself onto his newly-bony shoulders, the tie hangs in the right spot, the white shirt is clean and crisp, cool on his cuts. He smiles grimly. Who could see through the façade? Who would give him a second look? No one. Because no one wants to see through perfection.

_Showstopper._

He warms up in his room. This will be the last time he does scales, the last time he puts on his show face and 'lights up the room'. Everything is so final. And it feels amazing. There's no looking back, there's no slowing down. The people around him are all moving at their own pace. No one is slowing down. And neither is he.

But _shit. _He's running late.

_Going. Going…_

The door closes behind him.

_Gone._

He adjusts his blazer, and makes his way down the stairs.

'Excuse me.'

_Oh._

'Um, hi.'

_Suddenly._

'Can I ask you a question?'

_Everything._

'I'm new here'

_Stops._

'My name's Blaine.'


End file.
